


That Thorn In Your Side Is Alive (And It's Killing Me)

by Louffox



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Coming Untouched, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Fungi, Fungi Fetish Squad ROLL OUT, M/M, Medical Horror, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, Mushblins!, Mushrooms, Necrophilia, Outdoor Sex, Parasitism, Presumed Dead, Rotting, Smut, Wormy - Freeform, graphic smut, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:48:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29910978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Louffox/pseuds/Louffox
Summary: Wilde missed Grizzop when he was gone.But now he's al-he's not d-He's back.
Relationships: Grizzop drik Acht Amsterdam/Oscar Wilde, Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde
Comments: 10
Kudos: 13





	1. Dirt and Grime

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Skinny, Mean Man by Say Anything.
> 
> _I know you love how I make it all go away  
>  all the joy, all the pain, all thoughts in your brain  
> For the price of your soul, I will hold your heart in my talons  
> For three summers straight you've been my sweet eye candy  
> and no one will ever, ever, take you away from me._

“ _ Psst _ .”

He was supposed to be gone.

The path Wilde walked was a common one. Empty, but that was normal. Dark, also normal. Rainy. He didn’t think about any of it. He did this often. So he didn’t react with anything but gentle confusion at a hiss of attention from the woods around. He was in a safe and common space, and had the ease that went with that.

“Hey. Psst!”

It was unrecognizable as anything but a whisper, and he was barely able to tell where it came from. The left, he thought?

“Over here.”

It was still a whisper, too sibilant to detect size or age or anything identifying at all, but he could tell it was definitely coming from the left. He moved toward it, cautious but not even really suspicious. Or- no more than the usual base level of suspicion that flavored every waking moment, and many sleeping moments as well.

He stepped off the path.

It felt like just a step. Two, maybe. No more than three.

He’d chased every lead he could find. Which wasn’t much. It had taken so long to even realize he wasn’t with them anymore. By the time he’d even found out they were gone, the trail had long gone cold. He tried anyways, learning everything he could about who they’d gone with and for what and what may have been involved. When he made the uneasy alliance with the harlequins, he learned many missing pieces.

He still couldn’t put it together.

The woods were so dark he could hardly see, the trail gone, the sounds of it all deafening. 

“Oy. Wilde.”

_ Then _ he finally whirled, a spell on his lips and a knife in his hand, and his tongue gently probing at the poison tooth he could use to kill himself should he be captured. 

He did not like what dwelt in these woods knowing his name. 

But out of the whisper now- he recognized him.

Grizzop.

He was supposed to be gone.

Rome had swallowed him, and the others, as Rome tended to do. Or so he’d heard. He didn’t know anyone who’d actually gone to Rome, because- well, the whole being swallowed by Rome. Folk who went there never came back, or if they did, they were disturbed, changed, and may as well have never come back, for all the returning folk resembled the ones who had left.

And it was worse when Azu and Hamid made it out. If he was going to come out, it would be with them, or not at all.

And not at all appeared to be the truth of the matter, as more time passed.

“How are you here? How did you get back?” Wilde asked in a rush, when Grizzop had come out and explained- well, no. He’d explained nothing. Not the deep black rings around his eyes, or the greenish tint to his dusky skin, or the faint smell of something dusty and damp that clung to him.

Wilde wanted to cling to him. Hold him so he knew he was real, hold him so he knew where he was. Hold him close and safe. Not let him out of sight again.

“You say that like you missed me.”

“That’s what you do when something gets lost. You miss it.” He hoped he was aloof and snarky enough to classify as his normal self. Truth was, he was shaken. He had missed Grizzop. Badly. More than he’d expected.

“Am I a thing to you? An it?”

“No.” His answer was immediate and sure. “You’re a living being.”

Grizzop grinned from ear to ear- literally, in his case, and Wilde’s stomach swooped. He took a step closer. It hardly made a difference- the path was long gone, the woods were neverending, and the only point that was a point was Grizzop.

He stepped closer to Wilde, perhaps also feeling a need to find a stable point in the dark repetitive nothing of the woods. His gaze was intent, that bold bright red stare undiminished. Wilde bent his knees to be at his level, eyes even.

From here, he could see a hole in the front of his breastplate.

And when Grizzop caught his chin in a grip like iron and dragged him in for a kiss, he found more holes in the back when he slid his hands up over his shoulders and around to draw him in closer.

“You’re dead.” He broke the kiss to gasp into Grizzop’s neck, eyes closed, heart racing. Grizzop felt feverishly hot, and it was catching- Wilde’s whole body seemed to have thrown itself into it with a fervor that left him panting, shaking, aching.

“You’re not going to tell anyone,” Grizzop whispered against him, less sibilant this time and more of an intimate, breathy mumble. He was kissing and licking his way over Wilde’s jaw to test his teeth against his ear. Was it a threat, or oriented toward the same goal as kissing? “You’re  _ not _ going to tell  _ anyone _ .”

“Yes,” Wilde whimpered as the hot breath in his ear raised goosebumps all over his body. “Okay.”

They fucked right there in the dark woods, on the leaves and moss and dirt.

Grizzop bred him like an animal, pushing his face into the ground, hips pistoning, fingers digging sharp spots of pain into his hip. Wilde’s arms had gone out from under him and he felt sharp rocks and bits of branches rubbing against his face as he moved with how hard Grizzop was pounding him, feeling his own sopping mess sticking the inside of his legs and reducing the mad pace to a blissfully frictionless slick slide. The hand on the back of his head moved to hold his hip, squeeze his thigh, and then rub cruelly and demandingly against his clit, making him gasp and whimper and finally come. He had only just managed to relax his face and blink his eyes open and working again when Grizzop came as well.

His eyes closed again against his will, as the silken feel of Grizzop’s spunk pumped inside him. He’d never felt anyone come quite so clearly. It was shocking and for some reason, made him have to blink fast to keep from crying. There was an unexpected lump in his throat.

Grizzop told him not to look for him- that he would find Wilde, when he could. He kissed him sweetly on the mouth and was gone before Wilde could question him further. Leaving him to struggle to his feet alone, do his best to brush the dirt and leaves from his arms, his knees, his face, stagger and barely keep his balance pulling his trousers back on and wincing at the thick feel of come sluggishly congealing and clotting inside him.

He had to stop twice on his walk back through the woods to the path- having to cast a directional spell to even figure out where it was- to lean on a tree and catch his breath, his heart suddenly and without prompting racing in his chest. Each time, he felt too hot, breathing too fast, dizzy and ill in an unsettlingly unspecific way. He couldn’t put his finger on what felt wrong, just that it was that- wrong.

A shaky gesture and he prestidigitated himself back to his usual decorum.

He couldn’t bear to prestidigitate his insides clean. He needed the reminder that Grizzop was al-

That Grizzop wasn’t d-

That Grizzop was still around.

_ Don’t look for me. I don’t need to be found. _

_ I’ll come to you. _


	2. Fractured Pretzel Spine

He swore he could feel Grizzop watching him, and he knew it wasn’t just a feeling.

Walking to town again, he saw the twin red orbs just beyond the light, just a step off the path. Thinking this was what Grizzop meant, that he’d come to him, he’d stepped off the path.

In the moment when the sun had left his eyes and he’d blinked to adjust to the shade, Grizzop was gone.

Again, one day from his office, he looked out the window, chewing on his pencil end, and saw the high eared silhouette outside. Standing and crossing the room had been long enough for him to disappear again.

The sensation of being watched, being able to feel his presence around- Wilde had always appreciated being seen. So he dressed well, was more aware of how he held himself and moved when he was ‘alone’.

He sat half on his windowsill, one foot up on the sill and knee bent, one leg on the floor, and arched his back against the shades as he brought himself to toe-curling orgasm.

A few nights later, feeling the weight of being watched again, he’d gone on his knees like that night in the woods and humped back against four of his fingers until he was drooling, finally slurring  _ Grizzop! _ into the dark and seemingly empty air.

But he knew he wasn’t alone. And he knew it was appreciated. He could sense the approval, the warm pride and gratitude, and his performances became more frequent. It was funny, really. He’d known himself to be a bit of a voyeur- he was a socialite, after all- but the frequency he found himself soaked and pulsing with heat was to teenager-level persistence.

He wished Grizzop would come fuck hiim again.

The frustration and need and desperation overcame him one night, a few fingers deep in his cups (not an allusion- literal fingers of whiskey in his cup- not flat out drunk, but powerfully tipsy) and sent him storming into the woods, deciding  _ fuck his rules, fuck his instructions- Grizzop wasn’t in charge of him, he was in charge- _

-except most of his interactions with Grizzop prior to Rome had been with Grizzop very much dictating what he would do, not the other way round, and he’d obeyed that growling tone of uncompromising command without much fight, hadn’t he?

_ I’m the handler here. I can handle it. _

_ I need him _ .

He marched through the woods for an hour, listening with all his senses, casting about to detect magic or sound or anything.

Finally accepting that Grizzop was more forest-savvy than he, paladin and favored of Artemis that he was, and Wilde stood nought chance of hunting him if he didn’t want to be found, he’d come to a dead stop with an angry huff of breath.

And then the smell of the forest had rushed in on him, and he felt suddenly wrapped in the scent of wet deteriorating leaves, damp reaching moss, roots, soil, spores, seeds, earth, life-

He’d fallen to his knees as though struck, shuffled a moment to part them enough to shove his hand down the front of his pants, and sobbed as he climaxed in a matter of seconds, gushing hot and wet over his frantic tapping fingers.

Kneeling there in the woods was the first moment he’d thought maybe something was wrong.

But Wilde was… well, Wilde, and Wilde was fine.

He slunk back home to wash and change (and what if he brought himself off with the brush of the wet cloth again, sinking savage teeth into the thick meat of his thumb in something like anger at his shocking sensitivity and furor.

Again the thought crossed his mind that something was wrong.

Again, he spurned it, cleaned himself up, dressed himself up, drew himself up, and went about ignoring it.

He had work, and responsibilities, and duties, and expectations, and this was more important than a vague unease about- what, his own horniness? Bupkiss.

No one had to know. He washed frequently, kept to his regular schedules, kept everyone busy. He had his usual dinner dates with Zolf and kept orders and correspondence going with Azu and Cel and Hamid. Zolf might have noticed he was preoccupied, but this was nothing new- he was always preoccupied with something, and was able to blame it on shipments, tracking, reports, new information or a lack thereof.

And it wasn’t like he couldn’t function.

Well.

The day came where that too began to fall apart.

He was going over old shipping records, comparing destinations and designations. Perhaps he could track the spread of the contagion if he could figure out what it wanted, or if it followed certain trade paths. Something about motive. He had a map spread out on the wall and was pushing pins of different colors into it, when suddenly his joints went loose.

He caught himself against the wall and straighted up again. Odd. Was that-?

It came again, and his breath caught as his back tensed and legs trembled and hands went up to grab- something, anything-

It happened so fast, not like usual. There wasn’t the buildup and chase and drag and push and pull, no leadup to the edge.

He wasn’t jumping off the cliff. He was  _ thrown _ .

And the whole time, though he managed to keep silent, he was begging and pleading and thanking for it.

It felt like it lasted forever, holding him in a perfect arched back, tucked chin, mouth open in a silent cry, eyes squeezed tight shut as it rocketed through him in electric waves of heat and pleasure and  _ pleasure _ and  _ pl-oh oh ohh- _

It finally ebbed, leaving him slumped against the wall, and when he stood, a string of drool traced from his soaking lower lip. He blearily licked his mouth and swallowed.

Everything felt swollen and slowly pulsing with a sleepy sort of aftershock. His cunt- which was sticky and hot. His fingers and toes. His mouth. Swollen and lax. Like he’d been fucked ten ways to tuesday.

His first thought was to go lie in bed and enjoy it.

Next thought: maybe clean up first. He was cooling and shivering a little, though that was more from lingering tremors than chill.

Then:  _ what- _

_ How? _

_ What? _

Something was happening to him.

He cleaned himself up and went back to work, looking up with bleary eyes only once to stare out the window, looking for the red cast of eyes or the sharp lines of ears in shadow that he could feel were there.


	3. Filled and MIne

Zolf didn’t think anything of it when Wilde didn’t come to breakfast. Maybe he was sleeping. A rare treat, that. The fop liked to run himself right to actual medically-defined exhuastion, and then crash for 18 hours. Good.

He didn’t emerge early afternoon either, which was a little weird. Usually, when he did his big crash, he would stagger out to guzzle some water or tea like the big drama fool he was, and then go fall back in bed. So Zolf realized he ought to be a good queerplatonic partner and bring him something to drink- he didn’t really favor being a hero and having to heal him from dehydration or cure what ailed him when it was something as foolish as “I slept 3 hours a night for a week then crashed for 18 or so and forgot to eat or drink the whole time.” Best to save his heroics for something good. Something dramatic that Wilde would appreciate and give him one of those golden bright sunshine smiles for, the rare genuine happy look that Zolf treasured in his mind like a greedy hoard.

He just wanted to save his partner from real monsters, was that so much to ask? Not stupid stuff like his own lack of proper self-care.

Thought he would grudgingly admit, he certainly wouldn’t  _ not _ save him from his own lack of proper self-care, which was why he was filling a water glass and heading for Wilde’s room.

He heard gentle sound from inside and hesitated. He knew Wilde had been more… randy lately. Wasn’t sure why, didn’t question it. Allosexual folk were a bit of a mystery- fascinating, but a mystery- to him. He didn’t tend to question Wilde’s libido, knew it to be a powerful thing and if it was anything like the rest of him, whimsical and frivolous as well.

So he thought about it for a minute. He wasn’t squeamish or adverse to seeing anything lewd. His asexuality didn’t present with revulsion, and his medical training left him very much with a scientific understanding of a body. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen, wasn’t anything he would be upset to see. But he didn’t want Wilde upset or unsure, and their relationship had been very clearly an asexual one, and he didn’t want to make it weird.

So he turned and went back to the kitchen, thinking he could probably get some quick naan bread made in the time it took him to get off, and bring him some sustenance with his hydration. How was that for a self-care hero, huh? He was sure he still had plenty of that roasted garlic spread he’d made earlier in the week. What a good partner he was, letting his man get himself off and bringing him garlic naan and tea after. There was something especially satisfying in the acts of love he made that weren’t typical allo- or romantic- things.

And maybe he’d steal a kiss before they ate, because sometimes when Wilde was relaxed, his lips felt nice against his own.

The naan took a little over an hour (he wasn’t sure it was technically naan, but it was a sort of flatbread and if Wilde wanted to correct him, they could have a fun long bicker about it) so he wasn’t cautious when heading to Wilde’s quarters with a neat tray and everything. Surely he was done by now.

He wasn’t sure what made him pause, with his hand on the door handle, and listen. Surely he was done.

_ Surely not _ , he thought, listening. It wasn’t much for sound. A gentle creak of the bedframe and heavy breathing.

Another thought struck him.  _ Idiot _ . What if he wasn’t getting off? What if he was being attacked or strangled or fighting?

Zolf shoved the door in, a spell of inflict wounds ready at his fingertips. It wasn’t something he’d prepared that day, a day spent at their hotel, their safe place, but it was an easy swap and he was ready to brutalize whatever thought it were gonna be doing the brutalizing.

The room only had Wilde in it.

Inflict wounds became cure wounds with a thought, as Zolf rushed over, dropping the tray on the bedside table.

Wilde was writhing on the bed, half shining with sweat, the corners of his eyes with salt tracks from where his eyes had watered and finally run dry, his lips cracked, chest also lightly salted and heaving.

“Wilde. Wilde. Can you hear me?”

He was shaking all over, thrashing, and Zolf couldn’t tell if he was nodding or not. His teeth were gritted so hard he could see the muscles bunched and flexed at the corners of his jaw.

“Wilde. What’s wrong?”

No clear answer, just more thrashing. Zolf went through the checks, as quickly as he could without sacrificing thoroughness, grimly going through the routine.

It had been a while since he’d had to do a full medical on someone while they were in distress. A nice, long while.

Not long enough that he’d forgotten.

He would never forget how to save a life. Or- how to try.

Blood. He checked for blood. There was none, no bruising, nothing especially livid. His spine and back were twisted a little, but not at an unnatural angle, and a quick probe up his back revealed it not to be broken. He did the same with Wilde’s arms, his legs. Nothing seemed to be wrong.

Wilde arched again, hard, his hand gripping Zolf’s with a frighteningly desperate strength. Zolf squeezed his fingers back.

Head. No injuries. He probed through his hair, his scalp, feeling for blood, liquid, clots, bumps. Nothing.

Fever. Any specific part overheated. Nothing.

He went through the routine, mentally checking off each box, refusing to get panicked as his options for shrank.

What was it. What was it?

And then as he watched Wilde’s face, thinking furiously, his own teeth gritted with frustration-

Wilde’s face scrunched and loosened, eyes and brow tensing and mouth opening wide, lips loose, and his back lifted off the bed a little. His feet scrabbled, heels skidding as he-

_ oh _

as he came.

“Wilde, I’m going to undress you fully and check your- your genitals, okay? I’m sorry. Please scream or- or something, if you’re not okay with that, but it’s- something’s medically wrong. Real wrong. I think you- okay, I’m gonna do it now.” Zolf said hurriedly, beginning to tug loose Wilde’s trousers. He pulled them down to his knees- then further, as he seemed to want them parted, and he didn’t want to hinder him from whatever was doing on- and pulled his pants down too.

He didn’t see anything strange- just the shine of slick, glazing the inside of Wilde’s thighs and stringing across in thick gobs in a few places. He could see it sticky along the swollen lips of his labia, but couldn’t see anything else.

“I’m going to check with a finger, alright Wilde?” The bard still didn’t seem capable of answering, so Zolf amended his statement and hated himself a little for it. “Say if you don’t- if you need me to stop.” Knowing Wilde couldn’t say anything, fraught as he was. 

He steeled himself. It was for his own good. It was to help.

He pushed one finger in his folds, then added another to spread them apart and see in his vulva.

Everything looked normal- well, swollen, and felt fever hot, but nothing looked obviously wrong.

He flinched hard as Wilde came again, bucking, hips suddenly grinding on Zolf’s hand. He snatched his hand back and watched, wincing, until it ended and Wilde went back to gasping and writhing- apparently still being… stimulated, by whatever it was, through that orgasm and being forced along to another. It looked like agony, a slow unwilling drag along, so Zolf took advantage of the lull and parted his knees further to see, getting on the bed to kneel between them. He had to figure out what was wrong. He had to help him.

Because though it was clear now that it was bliss wracking Wilde, not agony, it was- well, it looked like agony too, a little. Something about the way he moved and dug his hands into the sheets and arched and panted, and the moments Zolf could see his bloodshot eyes when he had them open and staring up- something about it looked like- he was helpless, he was trapped, this wasn’t something of his own making. He could see the plea for more, the normal pleas of a person so sharply aroused, but he could also see a plea for a different sort of release. Not sexual release. Like he was trapped.

Zolf got his fingers back to his vulva, parting his labia and feeling around. It felt normal- sticky, hot, Wilde’s own flesh.

He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but he knew he’d recognize it when he found it.

The recognition, when it came, was a horrified lurch of revulsion and fear that sent him jerking back and away from him, scrambling away from knees that had suddenly closed around him, trying to squeeze him, riding out another orgasm.

He felt Wilde’s entrance and pressed a finger in, seeking the source of his unrest. 

What he felt-

It wasn’t right.

It was so wrong.

It wasn’t-

Zolf hadn’t exactly had his fingers in a lot of vaginal openings. But he knew what it ought to feel like. Flesh in a channel, soft, probably slick, warm, smooth. Folds of flesh and soft tissue, hard tissue, elastic, taut and giving.

This was wrong.

He pushed a finger inside Wilde, feeling, and something felt him back.

Many somethings.

Zolf stared in horror down at Wilde as he blinked tears from his eyes, finally managing a broken whimper as the latest in gods-knew how many orgasms tore through him, as the worms that filled his insides writhed and squirmed.

Because Wilde was filled with worms.

Or larvae. Maggots. Something small and round and squirming.

Bile rose in Zolf’s throat as, in the silence after his whimper, back slumped and not writhing for a second, he realized he could hear them.

He could  _ hear them _ . The unmistakable sound of a hundred maggots squeakily and squishily climbing over and around each other, a thick knot of them, stuffing Wilde full and moving relentlessly over his nerves.

Wilde’s eyes opened for another rare moment, and Zolf locked with his gaze.  _ Help me _ .

His fevered, bloodshot stare slid over his shoulder and past, and the fear was sharp there before his eyes slammed shut again as he was forced through another orgasm.

Wilde was helpless. He couldn’t talk. Couldn’t do magic. Couldn’t even move, not really, not of his own volition. Just try and endure the onslaught. He didn’t know how long it had been happening- it felt like an eternity. He felt insane. He felt like he was dying. It was terrible, even as the pleasure tore through him. Pleasure had become the enemy, a masked torturer.

No. Not masked

Not pleasure either. Something beyond.

He met eyes with Zolf and saw the helplessness there, and knew his partner didn’t know how to save him. Wilde didn’t know if he could. Didn’t know anything. But this bliss, the agonizing wrenching bliss that continued to pummel him from the inside out.

His gaze moved past Zolf and he could see, in the dark hallway beyond his room, in the crack of the ajar door, red eyes watching him, as what he’d taken from Grizzop, been given by Grizzop, took and gave to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my contacts are falling out of my eyes but I knew if I didn't finish this now, I never would.
> 
> hope yall enjoyed, thanks for playing.
> 
> Also inspired by a sudden unexpected tiktok that went as such:  
> "ER nurse here, giving you some advice on how to avoid the ER. If you don't want to end up in the ER with your vagina full of maggots giving you constant orgasms, don't use cottage cheese as lube."
> 
> Obviously grizzop did not splooge Wilde with cottage cheese but it was something goopy and creamy and squirmy and resulted in a vagina full of maggots giving constant orgasms. Yay? Or nay?  
>  _i thought these were tips on how to AVOID the ER, that is not what i got from this, thank you tiktok nurse_

**Author's Note:**

> mind the tags lads


End file.
